


the flush of the known universe (the exquisite realisation)

by neville



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, they just deserve to be happy and live a happy life thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: The Protagonist likes this coffee shop, and the man behind the counter, and the way he smiles.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 172





	the flush of the known universe (the exquisite realisation)

**Author's Note:**

> i have seen tenet once and i did not understand most of what anyone was saying and i have a very short memory so i hope the characterisation in this fic is okay! i'm just. Obsessed . they deserve the world, and they definitely deserve a coffee shop au
> 
> pretentious title is from walt whitman's "i sing the body electric"

Here’s the thing about the coffee. 

It’s really fucking good. 

The Protagonist wouldn’t usually put himself at risk like this: he likes not being noticed, passing through the places he works as just another face in the crowd. It’s not actually as if he works a high-risk job — he’s a diplomat, and doesn’t work in particularly dangerous territories, even though he could — but he just doesn’t like being seen. He’s a loner by nature, and he doesn’t mind that. 

But the coffee at this shop near the embassy is just so damn good that he’s been in every day this week, and the guy behind the counter — his name tag says Neil, written in the kind of beautiful cursive that reflects his British accent — is starting to grin when the Protagonist walks in. Neil knows his order. Neil makes his order like it’s what he was born to do. Neil even makes neatly palatable small talk, the kind that the Protagonist doesn’t mind bartering back in.

He only raised one eyebrow when he asked for a name, and got “the Protagonist” in response. Neil’s been shortening it over the week:  _ the Protag-onist _ ,  _ Protag _ , and then finally  _ Hero _ . 

“I never said I was a hero,” the Protagonist says at the end of the counter as Neil dispenses the syrups in a series of elegant pumps. “I could be a villain. Or an anti-hero.” 

“Darling, look at you,” Neil says with that dazzling smile of his. “You’re a hero through and through. And besides that, villains drink black coffee.” He winks, fixing the lid on and sliding the cup across the table. “Nor do they buy muffins.” 

The next day, Neil writes  _ darling _ on the cup, and laughs at the Protagonist’s expression. “What can I say?” he says, resting his elbows on the countertop. “I like it when you drop by. I do hope that this isn’t a passing fling. Everyone’s miserable before their caffeine except for you.” The Protagonist has somewhere to be soon, but he knows that he can talk his way out of anything here. He gets along well here. It doesn’t matter if he stays for a few minutes, so he takes a preliminary hot sip of his coffee and smiles back. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Work takes me places. Though this might be my favourite.” 

“I’ll assume you’re talking about my shop, because it’s the least I deserve,” Neil chuckles. 

“Oh, of course,” the Protagonist says. “This is the best place in the entire world. Right here.” 

“You are so shameless,” Neil says. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take me out for dinner tonight, would you?” 

“If only I wasn’t taking an aristocrat instead,” the Protagonist says, tucking the muffin away into his pocket to eat later. He likes British muffins and their lemon and blueberry flavours; but Neil’s taste the best, made fresh and not the stale ones at chain stores. He could be fooled that they’re still warm sometimes. He likes Neil, and the way that Neil unashamedly calls him  _ darling _ and always means it; and he likes the way that he can flirt with Neil as easily as he breathes. It doesn’t feel like effort. He doesn’t feel like he’s on a tightrope. He can never say anything wrong here. “What about something this weekend?” 

“Have you been to the Science Museum yet?” Neil asks, and the Protagonist shakes his head. This city is full of museums, with massive structures on every street advertising various historical significant artefacts; he’s not sure where he’s supposed to start. Actually, he started with the art galleries, because he finds those easier. He can walk through a gallery without stopping and just  _ take in _ the art. He doesn’t need to understand it; he can  _ feel  _ it. He thinks museums are more of Neil’s style, and that’s fine, because there are plenty for Neil to take him to. He thinks about holding Neil’s hand as they walk around, thinks about Neil’s smooth voice reading out plaques and explaining things that he never knew because science has always just eluded him. “We can go there on Sunday.” 

“I’ll be there,” the Protagonist says, sliding his coffee from the counter and into his hand. “I look forward to it.” 

“Oh, darling, you should. Did I ever tell you I have a masters in theoretical physics?” 

Somehow, the Protagonist isn’t surprised. 

  
  


“I consider this long enough to be respectful,” Neil says on the bench outside the museum, the weather teetering on the edge between rain and sunshine in the way that only London weather can. “So, really, I have to ask: why the Protagonist? Not  _ why are you the Protagonist _ , because that’s a question I don’t have to ask. But I’m curious about the name. And I’d rather not be using the wrong pronouns, if that’s the case.” 

“It’s not that,” the Protagonist says. “My name made me feel tied to something. People and places. With no name, I feel free.” 

“With no name, you can be who you want to be,” Neil finishes. “The hero.” He smiles. “You are rather heroic. The role does suit, dashing gentleman that you are.” He leans back against the bench, as at home here as anywhere in the museum, among things that he knows inside out the way that the Protagonist never will. But that’s fine. He likes hearing it from Neil. When Neil explains things, they start to make sense. “Do you want to go for a coffee? Or are you an early afternoon drinks man?” 

“No coffee’s going to be as good as yours,” the Protagonist says seriously. 

“You know you could  _ try _ to restrain yourself, you helpless flirt.” 

“Oh? And why would I?” The Protagonist’s face is beginning to hurt from smiling so much. He didn’t even know he could smile like this without making himself, but all of this comes naturally with Neil. It’s nice, refreshingly so. It had been okay before, living on his own, moving from place to place and stretching his fingers in new and unfamiliar air; and it’s a new kind of okay now, after all this time, finding a place that maybe he wants to be. Where maybe he could stay. 

He’s getting ahead of himself. But he’s always liked to think in terms of happy futures. Futures where his feet are on the ground. Futures where things go right instead of wrong. 

Neil looks at him. “You’re thinking,” he says. 

“Yeah,” the Protagonist says. 

  
  


They have cocktails while the sun is still up in the sky, and it breaks through the cloud cover when they begin their walk to the tube station. Where the sun hits him, Neil looks like he was sculpted, an angel in plain sight. An angel who makes good fucking coffee. 

The Protagonist kisses him. Neil hums against his mouth and the Protagonist can feel the curve of that inevitable smile. 

  
  


He has to leave before he can return; all of his belongings are still in America, and quitting his job isn’t as simple as he wishes it was, and the thought of the flights preemptively starts his headache so he swallows some ibuprofen at the counter in Neil’s café. Neil is pouring extra shots into his coffee. “I’m not responsible if you have a heart attack on the plane,” he says. “I hope you haven’t seen  _ Final Destination _ .” 

“If I was going to have a caffeine-induced heart attack, I’d have had it by now,” the Protagonist reassures him. 

He doubts that it’ll be long before he finds another job again — probably something else mysterious — but Neil has offered him a part-time job here until then. And a part-time apartment (or what he calls a  _ flat _ ) that likely won’t be so part-time. The Protagonist is going to miss the smell of good coffee; he’ll miss it when he’s standing in an airport Starbucks ordering something overly sweet to mask the taste. He’ll miss it when he’s clearing out the apartment that he never stayed in, and when he’s on that last long haul flight back to Britain. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Neil at the door when he finally leaves. He puts his hand in Neil’s hair when he kisses him because he has enough to muss and annoy him; but Neil likes it that way. 

He wishes later, on the plane, that time could speed up. He can see already, in his mind’s eye, Neil waiting in the airport, hand tucked nonchalantly into his pocket; and Neil will try not to smile, but he’ll fail, because he always does. The Protagonist can always make him smile. He likes that. And then they’ll go back to Neil’s flat, and the Protagonist will laugh at his elegant decor and pick through his classical literature and tell him to  _ read something interesting _ . And Neil will make him a coffee, and it will go cold because the Protagonist will be memorising the patterns on Neil’s bedspread. 

Soon. Soon. 


End file.
